


September

by SweetSorcery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon, Dark, F/M, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Teacher-Student Relationship, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/SweetSorcery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's September 1944, and Minerva seeks solace after her first taste of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	September

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All canon referred to within belongs to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, Warner Bros. Inc., and possibly others. Non-canon bits were created for non-profit, non-infringement entertainment.
> 
> Archiving: Absolutely nowhere please, not even in translated form.
> 
> Author's Notes: This was written in March 2006.

Minerva will never forget the sound of bombs dropping from the sky day and night, even in the years and wars to come.

She is returning to Hogwarts at the end of September to continue her teaching apprenticeship. Her thoughts are sad and uneasy, and her train ride passes in a haze.

She nearly missed the Hogwarts Express in the furious struggle to get to King's Cross, and then barely managed to get through the barrier unseen because the station - part of it transformed into an air-raid shelter - was teeming with people. Muggles were hurrying to and fro, and children, so few children, were being herded into buses while carrying their grotesque blue and red gas masks. She learned where the rest of the city children were, and it sickens her. It seems a terrible thing to do, sending your children away to Merlin knew where. And yet, it might save their lives.

She picks at the edge of her cloak, thinking about Tom and his hatred of the orphanage. No, it simply cannot be right to make children stay with complete strangers.

She can't wait to see Tom. Sighing, she huddles in her warm cloak but continues to feel cold. She peers out the train window from her pitch dark compartment, rain whipping against the glass, and the rattling of the carriage is a soothing rhythm which makes her think of being rocked in someone's arms. She smiles sadly. Only another hour or so.

* * *

Tom meets her outside the Great Hall as if by prior arrangement. After a single glance into her haunted eyes, he takes her elbow and directs her away. "I've missed you, Minerva," he tells her almost casually. "I don't like to think of you among all those muggles."

She sighs, minding his disdain more than the fact that he didn't even ask if she wanted to go in to have dinner. It's not as if she is hungry, and it would feel wrong to sit and eat at a table groaning under the weight of far too much food, while muggles are living on rations.

They enter Minerva's small but private room, awash in soothing burgundy with only specks of other warm and homely colours. Tom immediately uses his wand to light the fire and conjure some mulled wine. And to lock the door, of course.

"Minerva?" he prompts, looking curious and a little annoyed at her continuing silence.

She looks at him, and a sob escapes her throat before she can stop it.

He sighs and draws her into his arms, pushing her cloak off her shoulders and rubbing her back steadily. His scent is masculine and a little spicy, and it enfolds her as soothingly as his arms. His warmth penetrates through her green cashmere jumper and her plaid skirt easily, and soon, she begins to feel better.

"I knew it would be a bad idea to go down there," he tells her. "You should have listened to me."

"I had to go, Tom. My aunt..." She is sobbing against his neck, and even though he probably minds, she knows he won't push her away.

"She would have been buried without you being there." It is the kind of cold and unfeeling thing Tom can say without finding it at all incongruous that he is comforting her at the same time.

Minerva chafes at his words, yet cannot help but cling to his warmth. In that, she is as incongruous as he. Perhaps that is why they cannot stay away from each other.

"Tell me about it then," he finally says, somewhat reluctantly. With one arm around her, he leads her to the sofa in front of the roaring fire. He sits and keeps her close, holding her head against the side of his neck and her cold fingers in the warm grip of his hand.

"It's horrid, Tom. Everyone's so afraid but trying not to show it. The sky blazes with fire most nights, German bombs destroying entire buildings and everyone inside. As many as a hundred people die in a single street. They live in darkness for fear of guiding the way for enemy attacks. And there's not enough food..."

She continues on like this for minutes without a single interruption, while Tom strokes her tightly bound hair, loosening it subtly as if those liberated tresses were her strained nerves. He holds her until her words start to run dry, and then he leans forward and picks up her mulled wine, briefly blowing the steam from the top before pressing the glass to her lips. She sips a little, and he sets it down again.

Several more minutes go by in utter silence. There is only the crackling of logs shifting in the fireplace and the almost inaudible sound of their breathing, so oddly in tune.

"Why don't you say something?" she finally asks.

"What would you have me say, Minerva?" Tom does not cease his slow, even caresses. "Do you expect me to pity those muggles? Perhaps shed a few tears for them to please you?"

"Don't, Tom." She tries to pull away, but he won't let her. And she's not trying very hard after all.

"If muggles must kill each other, why should I - or you, or any of us - care?"

"What about their children?" Minerva asks angrily. "What choice do they have?"

"None, of course." Tom's fingers remain tender even as his tone darkens. "Which is why their parents should know better, shouldn't they? If they cared for them at all. But muggles don't know how. They don't love their children like we do." His voice is sharp and cold.

Minerva shivers in his arms.

"Are you cold, my dear?" Tom asks solicitously. "Would you like more wine?"

"No," she says sulkily, but does not draw away. She cannot argue with him because she doesn't have the words. She doesn't know if muggles care, or how much. She knows so little about them, but cannot help but remember those stories of crying children being packed on trains and buses and driven away. She doesn't tell Tom about that.

"I'm sorry," he says, softly. She's astonished, until he continues, "Truly sorry that you had to see all that, Minerva. You should not have gone. You should be here, with me, where I can protect you from such things."

She hates herself for feeling warmed by those words, and she hates Tom for doing that to her. For making her love him despite his... the way he is. "Muggles don't deserve to die like that," she simply says, having no other argument but compassion.

"So you say." Tom's fingers brush the softness of her temple. "And yet, they have managed to invent ways to kill as many as a hundred of their own, and more, in a single strike. You've seen it for yourself, haven't you? They are savages, Minerva."

"And wizards don't kill?" Minerva raises her head from Tom's shoulder, glaring at him. "Wizards are better? Don't they do battle? Don't they kill one another for personal gain or because they feel superior?" With that last, her eyes harden further. She hopes the words will hit home.

Tom smiles at her indulgently. "Certainly they do," he admits in a tone which says how very obvious it is. "But tell me, Minerva. Do you know of a single spell which will kill a hundred wizards at once? Has any wizard ever stooped so low as to create such a thing?"

Her lips part, and she wants to argue, to tell him how wrong he is, and how unfair. But she has no words, because there is nothing she can say.

His eyes grow softer the longer they hold her own. "I was worried for you," he whispers, his fingers caressing her high cheekbones. It is not as if he changes an uncomfortable subject, because he does not think in such terms. He simply switches from what is not relevant to him to what is. "I'm so very glad you're back." And with this, he cups her face and kisses her, his lips painfully soft on hers.

She wants to tear away, outraged that he should dare be tender to her while being cruel to everyone else. But his hands cradle her head so gently, and his tongue probes the seam of her sweet, wine-stained lips so patiently, that she cannot fight him. When her mouth opens, and he sighs into their kiss as if he is coming home, she almost forgets his cruel words. And she knows by the time he has coaxed her into opening her body to him, she will have forgiven them as well.

 

THE END


End file.
